


Being a Mick

by Deannie



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Period-Typical Racism, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 17:04:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2076039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deannie/pseuds/Deannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You will not use that word, is that clear?” She suddenly adopted her usual tone, leaving Ezra confused. “If you are saying that your father was Irish, then say it.” She gave him a stern look. “A gentleman never uses words like that to describe another person. Being derogatory only risks you angering the wrong person. ”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being a Mick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mendax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mendax/gifts).



> Written for Mendax, who likes Maude and backstories.

Seven-year-old Ezra Standish stood politely on the platform, his insides curling in anticipation while he pretended calm. He’d learned his lesson the year before, when he had greeted his mother too exuberantly, and he wouldn’t risk her ire today. She’d bring him something, surely. It was his birthday, after all.

She’d remember this time—why else arrive on this very day? She'd left for Chicago nearly five months earlier and he'd never been quite sure when she was planning to be back. Then suddenly, yesterday, Uncle Willard had declared that she'd be here today on the noontime train and Ezra had just known she'd done it so she wouldn't miss another birthday. His fifth birthday had been horrible—Auntie Frances being the worst kind of tyrant—and while his sixth birthday had been happily spent with Aunt Carine and Lena, his mother hadn't even been able to get a note to him on the day. She wouldn't miss another. It was obvious she'd rushed back just to celebrate with him.

As she descended to the platform, smiling at him pleasantly and calling his name, but saying nothing more, he decided to play the game and merely took her hand, leading her toward the exit. “I missed you, Mother,” he stated solemnly. “Was it a good trip?”

She seemed pleased, so Ezra was, too. “Quite profitable, my dear. Quite profitable.” He wondered what that meant for his birthday. Profitable meant they could buy things. Sometimes big things. He looked behind them at the porter who was piling all of Mother’s luggage on a cart. A fanciful part of him wondered if you could hide a pony in a wardrobe trunk.

They walked toward Ezra’s Uncle Willard, who was waiting outside by the coach. Uncle Willard was a good sort—a widower who had a couple of sons younger than Ezra, but bigger than him, too. Not that everyone wasn’t bigger than Ezra. He hoped he’d grow eventually. But from what Reg said, he doubted he ever would.

He needed to ask Mother about that, he decided, as she smiled at Willard and exchanged pleasantries. Ezra still wasn’t entirely sure how they were related to his uncle (or was he Mother’s uncle? He did seem a lot older than she did.), but the two seemed to get along quite well.

Willard stowed Mother’s bags on top of his expensive covered coach and gave her a hand inside, leaving little Ezra to clamber up after her by himself while Willard went up front to take the reins. Once they were underway, his mother looked across at him with a smile.

“So what have you been up to since I’ve been gone, dear Ezra?”

Ezra told her about the books he had read—far too old for him, but all he had since his cousins couldn’t read at all yet—and the quarter horse Uncle Willard gave him to ride and the markets Uncle Willard had taken them to as he went to sell his cotton. He told her of Ireana, the negro who took care of him and Reg and Leander, of the slaves and their beautiful songs—“Bessie calls them ‘spirituals’!”—and of the wonderful cakes that Uncle Willard’s cook made.

He didn’t tell her about the overseer Mr. Hill and how mean he was, or how he’d come after Ezra and Leander with his switch when they’d tried to go and talk to the slave children who were clearing the fields after the harvest last month—Ireana had been putting some salve on the welts and they were mostly gone now. He didn’t tell her about the beating Old Sam had gotten for not moving fast enough. He didn’t tell her about the fights he’d had with Reg or how Uncle Willard had had to beat both of them and put them in their rooms without supper a couple of times. At least.

She wouldn’t want to hear that. Only good things.

“What did you do, Mother?” he asked finally, when he’d run out of good things to tell her, pleased with himself that he’d managed to make it sound like he’d been just fine while she was gone. “It must have been a great adventure to be gone so long.” He wasn’t sure where Chicago was, but it seemed very far away from Slidell, Louisiana.

“Oh, I was here and there, Ezra,” she said breezily. “Here and there.” She sat forward and Ezra smiled at the light in her eyes. Lord, he'd missed her! “Darling, there are men in Chicago just itching to spend their money. The railroads are all congregating there, and the streets are running with—“ She wrinkled her nose a moment. “Well, the streets are running with muck and filth—but the money, Ezra!”

He grinned. “Maybe we should go back, then.” His subtle emphasis on _we_ wasn’t lost on his mother.

“Oh, Ezra, Chicago is no place for a child—though there are far too many children there already. Filthy little urchins running about unsupervised.” She looked him in the eyes. “It’s just not safe, dear. Why, it’s filled to the brim with rough and tumble types. Not safe at all!”

He touched her hand worriedly. “But you’re all right, aren’t you, Mother?” He looked her over, hunting for hurts he couldn’t see. Lots of hurts were real easy to hide, after all.

She covered his hand with her own. “Oh dear, of course I am, Ezra. Honey, you know I always land on my feet.”

He giggled. “Like a cat, right, Mother?”

“Exactly, my boy! Just like one.” She sized him up. “Just like you, my dear little tomcat. You’re looking wonderful--so trim and fit!”

His face fell with the reminder of his puny state. He knew Mother put great stock in being lean; in being pretty. But in Uncle Willard’s house, with Ezra’s thick, tall, bruiser cousins, trim might as well mean shrunken. He sat in his dark thoughts for a while as the coach rattled on and Mother stayed silent.

“Cousin Reg says I’ll never grow,” he finally blurted out. “It’s not true, is it? He says because my father was a mick, I’ll—“

_“Ezra Standish!”_

His mother’s bark shut him right up and he looked at her fearfully. She almost never used that tone of voice. It was never good when she did. He waited silently, barely breathing, as she collected herself.

“You will not use that word, is that clear?” She suddenly adopted her usual tone, leaving Ezra confused. “If you are saying that your father was Irish, then say it.” She gave him a stern look. “A gentleman never uses words like that to describe another person. Being derogatory only risks you angering the wrong person. ” Mother’s look was now grave, and Ezra thought he got the point. He’d angered Old Auntie Frances enough times to still remember the lash of her belt even now, two years down the line.

“Besides,” she continued brightly. “There’s nothing wrong with being Irish. Your daddy gave you his Irish eyes, so you could beguile all around you, didn’t he?”

“But Reg says that mi—“ he corrected himself hastily. “That Irish people are just lazy, that all they do is fight and drink.”

Mother smiled somewhat fondly. “Many do do that. Your father was a wonderful fighter, in fact.”

Ezra grew more confused still. Weren’t fighting and drinking bad things?

“But Irishmen are no more lazy than the rest of us, son. Look what they say about the negroes?” She tossed a gesture out to show him the field beyond them where two dozen black men and women were working. “They call them lazy, but where are they right now? _Working._ Why, they’d be making money hand over fist if we let ‘em!”

She was silent for a long moment as he tried to puzzle out her meaning. “Oh Ezra,” she finally said, her voice a little sad. “Don’t you realize, son? It doesn’t matter where a person comes from—I expect it doesn’t even matter what color they are. It only matters the size of their purse and how you can use it.” She shook a finger at him. “But an angry mark is a mark that walks away and words like _mick_ endear you to no one.”

Ezra thought for a long minute on that.

”Was daddy really a boxer?”

Mother’s eyes rolled as if he’d missed the point entirely. “Yes, Ezra, and a very good one at that.” She looked him up and down again. “With your build and speed, I expect you’d be quite good as well.”

That’d be useful against Reg, he supposed. He wondered how you learned to box…

”Uncle Willard said you’d be having friends over this evening,” she said breezily. “I expect you have many, with charms like yours.”

“A few,” he allowed, amused by her coyness. Of course he’d have friends over. He finally couldn’t stand it anymore. “So, what did _you_ get me for my birthday?”

Mother paused a long moment and her smile dimmed, then brightened.

Ezra’s stomach clenched.

”Well, you’ll just have to wait until tonight and see, won’t you dear?” she told him, _too_ coyly.

She hadn’t gotten him anything.

Did she even remember it was his birthday?

”Oh, look,” she said quickly, trying to gloss over the moment like so many others. “Old Sam is moving faster than I’ve seen him move in a long while.” She pretended to be engrossed in the view out the coach window, but Ezra was learning to read her more and more now. He wondered what she’d come up with for his birthday. Some piece of junk she’d picked up in her travels, or something she had Ireana run out and buy at market when he wasn’t looking…?

When he was a grown-up, he told himself, he wouldn’t rely on _anyone_ —he’d celebrate his birthday however he wanted, no matter what. Only way not to be disappointed was to make sure he made it right, all by himself.

The coach came to a stop and Ireana was there to see them out. As they walked up to the house, Maude hung back and gestured for Ireana to join her. Ezra shook his head and walked on.

At least Ireana would get him something he’d like.

Reg slammed his shoulder “accidentally” as soon as he entered the front hall, grabbing his arm and yanking him into the parlor while the adults walked on, oblivious.

”So, did you ask your ma?” he asked a rough, mean smile on his face. “She tell you you’re going to be a runt like your useless mick daddy?”

Ezra drew himself up, heedless of the two-inch difference between him and his year-younger cousin. “Mother told me the Irish work just as hard as anyone else, and she told me _mick_ is a word that only ignoramuses use.”

Reg’s face screwed up in confusion. “What’s an ignoramus?” he asked, the glint in his eyes telling Ezra he’d pay for this reminder of Reg's ignorance.

”A man of ill breeding and little brains,” Ezra said haughtily, and walked out into the hall just as his mother and Ireana were heading into the sitting room. He grinned meanly at the cousin who wanted to come after him and pound him, knowing he was safe with the women about, and dashed up to them, taking his mother’s arm.

“I believe Mother might like some tea after her long trip, Ireana,” he said, the perfect gentleman. “If it’s not too much trouble?”

Ireana smiled at him and he grinned back, flirting in his eyes, as his mother would say. “Oh, Miss Maude,” she said, shaking her head in wonder. “That boy of yours, he got the charm of the saints, sure enough.” She looked beyond him to Reg and her eyes narrowed. Darn it. She could read the two of them like a book. There’d be no escaping a lecture when she got them alone. “And the smile of a devil.”

Mother smiled, patting Ezra’s hand and letting him lead her to the chairs where Uncle Willard was waiting. “Ezra takes after his father in so many things, Ireana,” she said, catching her son’s eyes and flicking a questioning look at Reg as he slunk in behind them. Ezra shrugged minutely. “You know, his father was quite the pugilist, actually. I expect Ezra’s natural talent will shine forth quite soon.”

Ezra didn’t grin at the look of disgust on his cousin’s face. Reg had obviously had enough of words he didn’t know. “What’s a pug—“

”Pugilist!” Uncle Willard bellowed forth, standing as Maude neared him and watching with a smile as her young son helped her into her seat. “Why yes, I recall Michael had a way in the ring, didn’t he? Quite the boxer.”

Reg’s eyes got wide.

”Well, I expect you could show Ezra a few moves, Willie,” Mother said sweetly. “I remember you were quite good yourself.”

Ezra could attest to the power of the man’s fist at any rate.

Uncle Willard snorted. “Good for a county fair brawl, Maudie, my dear, but not much else. Michael, though? He could lay a man out in seconds flat. Michael was something special.”

Ezra’s mind brought up the images of his daddy that he remembered—before the end, when it was all cold and frightening. Green eyes laughing; broad smile and caring arms…

”He was indeed, Willie,” Mother said quietly, shifting the focus away again immediately. “But I do think, while we’re here, that perhaps you might have Ezra spar a bit—just to see if he has an affinity for the sport, you understand.” She looked at Reg like he was a rare specimen of dirt. “Perhaps Reginald would go in the ring with him?” She sniffed and Ezra stifled a laugh. “I’m sure such a strapping boy as he wouldn’t have any trouble.”

Uncle Willard looked at her for a moment in confusion before he grinned broadly. “I think something can be arranged. The boys could certainly use an outlet for all that youthful energy.” He stared at both Ezra and Reg significantly as he said it, and Ezra looked appropriately uncomfortable, while cheering inwardly.

He always had liked Uncle Willard.

The adults talked on of inconsequentials and Ezra caught Reg looking at him in a new light. He sat up straight and proud in his seat.

His daddy had been a mick, sure, but he was a mick who could lay a man out in seconds flat.

So maybe being an Irish runt wasn’t the worst that could happen to him.

Reg glared at him over the mint cookies Ireana passed to them.

Though meeting Reg in the ring might be…

* * * * * * *  
The End


End file.
